Murder!
by sierrac
Summary: Mary and Richard talk motive, means, and opportunity after discovering just how easy it is to get away with murder in Chicago.


**AN: **This is an outtake from the 'Murders' chapter of my story 'Dispatches from America.'

**Timeline: **Mary and Richard got married as planned in July, 1919; the Christmas special never happened. This is October 1919, in Chicago on their honeymoon road trip across America.

* * *

"Bang," Mary said as she leaned against the door frame, clouds of steam billowing from the bathroom behind her in what she assumed was a most dramatic effect. She aimed her finger in Richard's direction, her hand poised in the universal gesture of a mock gun children always employed when playing cowboys and Indians. Catching him in her sights, she pointed directly at his heart, though she had to admit it was her own that skipped a beat, as it always did, at the sight of him shirtless in bed. "Got you."

No, it was the other way around. He was the one who had her, well and truly, the devious smirk that crossed his face his universal gesture proclaiming such a fact. "And I wasn't even typing," he replied.

"I was thinking about it," she said as he shut his book and placed it on the nightstand, the black and white cover of HL Menken's _The American Language_ a permanent fixture on his side of the bed for the duration of their trip so far. "I don't need a silly reason to kill you like waking me up with your noisy typing at four in the morning. Your money is perfectly sufficient motivation; why complicate things?"

"Precisely," Richard agreed. "Though you may want to make sure you're mentioned in my will before you go to all the trouble."

She could feel his eyes following her as she crossed the opulent bedroom of their suite to the dressing table in front of one of the windows. The fabric of her navy blue silk and lace playsuit swished pleasantly in the nighttime breeze coming in through the windows as she walked, the motion rustling the loose fabric as well as the pink velvet curtains that seemed to envelop an entire wall in luxurious drapery. Sitting down on the matching pink velvet stool trimmed with pom poms, Mary picked up the silver comb emblazoned with the Grand Pacific Hotel crest and started to brush out her damp hair, eyeing the picture in the mirror before her with a vague sense of loathing – she was getting rather tired of fixing her own hair.

"Good point," she told the reflection over her shoulder, "I wouldn't want my standard of living to be even further reduced." As her comb ran through a tangle, her sigh was audible across the room.

"On the bright side," he countered, "I don't think there are any maids to brush your hair in prison, so there's not much further to fall from here."

Mary had to laugh; Richard really must think her quite spoiled. Though she remembered he had been equally uncertain about embarking on their American journey without a single servant in tow, so he had little right to criticize her dependence on the help.

"I thought we established that if I killed you in Chicago, I wouldn't go to prison," she said, the comb stopping abruptly on an especially viscous knot. "The case might not even go to trial."

She could see him watching her grimace as she worked the implement through her tousled locks. One more reason to murder him – she blamed him for the state of her hair, as he was the only person oh-so-capable of tousling it.

"According to the bartender, you have a 75% likelihood of not getting convicted," he said when she finally succeeded in pulling comb through the twisted threads. "The odds are good, but not perfect."

The look of amusement on his face was plain; it was also even more irritating than the tangle. So Mary turned from the mirror to look at him directly.

"I'll take my chances."

* * *

She was not entirely sure how the conversation began, though it likely had something to do with the murder mystery play they had attended earlier in the evening. The performance started and ended with an elegant young wife shooting her rich older husband with a mother-of-pearl-handled revolver – standard enough fiction, until someone at the intermission had pointed out that the vast majority of actual murders in Chicago were never solved. At first Mary had been horrified – surely a city in which there were no repercussions for criminal acts was not a safe place to be. But then Richard had pointed out the flaw in her logic: of course it was hazardous for the victims, but the criminals enjoyed exceptional security. "In that case," she had joked, "I will have to join up with the outlaws."

As the play unfolded, details of the couple's life together began to emerge and the reasons for the criminal act became apparent. The husband was having an affair. The wife was living too extravagantly. The husband had lost money on bad investments. The wife had an opium habit. "Fair enough," Mary commented by act three, "let them kill each other and be done with it."

But by act four it was clear the two were not out to kill each other at all; the entire scenario had been a plot by the duo to cash in on the husband's life insurance policy by faking both his murder and constructing a proper motivation for it. While it would be obvious that the wife had plenty of reasons to murder him, without a body the court could not convict her, and the money would be theirs free and clear so they could start a new life in secret. "At least they make a good team," Richard had said at the start of act five.

Alas, things went both according to plan and not. Finding out that her lover planned to run off with, of all people, his very own wife, the husband's mistress really did shoot him. And because there was a very real body, the wife was convicted of the murder. And the life insurance policy went to the husband's second-named heir, though at this point both Richard and Mary had guessed the beneficiary: "the mistress," they whispered to each other conspiratorially in advance of the big reveal. And so another murder in Chicago went unsolved; or, at least, it was not solved correctly.

Naturally, this proved a great topic of conversation when they returned to the hotel bar for a nightcap. After describing the intricacies of the play to the bartender, who feigned interest with remarkable ability, they had advanced to discussing the feasibility of such a plot. The bartender then pointed out the similarities between the scenario and reality of the two people sitting in front of him, and inquired if the "play" was not actually a plan Richard and Mary were concocting in real life. "Do I_ look_ like I need the insurance money?" Richard had asked, indignant.

"He's comparing you to an old man with a mistress and a criminal mind and bad judgment, and what you take issue with is the allusion that you might be broke?" Mary replied skeptically.

"Certainly, that's the most insulting of all," he said disdainfully. "Well, that and the _old_ part."

"I should think the infidelity accusation would be more offensive," she posited. "Although I can envision murdering you for far less significant reasons."

"Such as?" he asked with a self-satisfied grin, daring her to elucidate her motives. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm quite perfect."

"Utterly flawless," Mary agreed wryly, "especially when you wake me up typing on that infernal machine in the middle of the night."

His hand encircled her elbow, and he drew her to him so he could whisper, out of the bartender's earshot: "You say that like it hasn't resulted in some rather enjoyable trysts…"

She simply blinked at him, the presence of the man behind the counter preventing her from communicating that yes, she did remember those middle-of-the-night trysts, and they _were_ rather enjoyable. Though she recalled too the complaints that came in the morning – Richard would say he did not get enough work done, and she would be ill-tempered from lack of sleep.

"Perhaps the irritating way you grab me at every opportunity," she said, returning to her list of complaints and looking down to where his large hand grasped her arm decisively.

The challenge only made his fingers dig deeper. "'Irritating?'" he replied with skepticism, clearly uninjured by her remark and obviously aware that she generally found the action more exhilarating than irksome.

Her mouth quirked into a half-smile, affirming his theory. She knew she was feeding his ego by acknowledging such a fact, but if he suspected she did find the gesture irritating, then she was afraid he might stop doing it. So Mary let him win this round, content in the knowledge that she had more cards up her sleeve.

"What about how you won't let me drive the Isotta?" she asked pointedly, a major bone of contention since Richard tried to teach her to drive in Newport and had hidden the car keys from her ever since.

"If you truly wanted to kill me, your driving would accomplish the task far more efficiently than any other plan," he said. Mary had surmised, when she was recounting to Grandmother her first driving experience, that Richard was simply threatened by her impressive racer-like skills behind the wheel. Sassy, who had seen her pull up into the driveway with a screech of tires and a tornado of gravel, had disagreed.

"Maybe the fact that my American grandmother likes you more than me," she offered, more perfectly valid reasons for homicide gleaned from months of marriage stacking up easily in her mind.

"Just be glad it isn't the other way around."

She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Or that you have a retort for everything I say…"

He chuckled. "I could say the same for you, although I'm not looking for a defense lawyer just yet."

This caused her to pause for a moment. "Really?" Mary wondered aloud. "But surely you want to murder me occasionally too," she prodded jokingly. He shook his head in the negative, and her eyes widened in concern. "Don't you love me?" she implored, her head tilting to the side in question.

"You know I love you," Richard replied matter-of-factly.

"Then I think you should want to murder me. Just a bit. Sometimes."

"Love equals hate, and all that?"

"Not hate, just…" she trailed off, trying to describe the proper emotion that inspired both love and soul-deep irritation, "…passion."

"And murder."

"Yes. If you love me, you should want to murder me."

But Richard just shrugged. "I can't say the thought has ever occurred to me." Mary felt the tiniest bit defeated – clearly she was not as adept at annoying him as he was at annoying her. Seeing her saddened expression, he hastened to add: "I've wanted to murder _other_ people, _because_ of you. Does that count?"

"I suppose it will have to do," she acknowledged with a sigh. "But clearly I'm not trying hard enough to aggravate you."

"You're succeeding rather well at the moment," he said with a raised eyebrow, gesturing down the bar for a refill of their drinks.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the bartender show off his liquor acrobatics, tossing bottles up and down as he poured and rattling the shakers theatrically. But even he couldn't beat Richard's self-satisfied expression, and Mary decided this was another valid reason for homicide. He placed the next round of cocktails before them on the bar with great flourish, and she decided to pursue her inquiry further. "Is it true that most homicides in Chicago are never solved?" she asked the man in the apron in her most innocent tone of voice.

Though clearly she also needed to improve her acting skills: "That look in your eye is less than assuring," Richard observed. But the bartender was already on Mary's side after Richard had inadvertently attempted to compare Chicago unfavorably to New York, so he smiled in her direction, ready to help in her conspiracy.

"Yep," the bartender answered. "Only a quarter of the murders in this town ever even get to trial."

It was an alarming statistic. "Are the police inept, or just corrupt?"

"Both, I guess. But we get cops talking in here sometimes, and the cases are tough too – gang violence and family problems, witnesses protecting criminals and the other way around."

"But even if they do identify the culprit, I could –" she paused, catching herself and quickly correcting her speech, "I mean, _the killer – _could bribe their way out of the charge?" she finished hopefully.

"Probably," the bartender said with a shrug. "Though they say things are changing down at city hall, that they're going to clean things up."

"Then she – I mean, _the killer,"_ Richard proposed as he raised his glass in a toast, "had better act quickly."

The bartender looked quizzically between them, uncertain of their dynamic or exactly how much sarcasm was present throughout their conversation. "You English do love a good murder, don't you?" he commented as he wiped the counter.

* * *

"I think the bartender is half expecting to see you carted away in an ambulance tomorrow morning," Mary said with a smirk, placing the comb back on the dressing table, her hair at last dry and tangle-free.

"How unfortunate for you, then, if I kick the bucket prematurely," came the comment from the bed.

"Not really," she said over her shoulder. "The bartender is sympathetic. He'll help with the cover up."

"I've had a lot of experience covering things up," Richard warned, "and it isn't always so easy."

"You forget that you wouldn't be the first man to die in my bed."

The comment slipped out before she even had a chance to consider it; shocked at her own levity, Mary quickly turned back to the mirror, feigning picking an eyelash off her check in order to look busy and hoping he did not notice that she brought up such a touchy subject in jest. "I didn't mean that," she amended quietly, more to mitigate her own conscience than out of worry that Richard might be angry because she mentioned Mr. Paumuk.

There was quiet between them for a moment, Mary still fixated on an empty spot in the mirror and Richard not answering.

"You know how I feel about that," he said at long last, "his death may have been an accident, but he deserved everything he got." She had told him the full story, including all the gory details, one night after they were married, and Richard had insisted that the affair did not sound entirely consensual. She wasn't sure she believed him; nor was she unquestioning about his motives for imagining such an explanation, but she was at least grateful he did not blame her like most people who knew about it.

There was silence again, and Mary wished they could just return to their banter of only a moment before. Richard must have sensed this too, as his next comment seemed carefully chosen to lighten the mood, if such a thing were possible when discussing homicides and criminal acts.

"My god," he said in artificial realization, "you're a black widow, aren't you? And I'm your next victim."

"We English do love a good murder," she repeated, keen to abandon the whole thing and move on.

* * *

"We've discussed the why," Richard began over the next drink, "but any good crime reporter knows you also need the how."

"And the when and the where," Mary added. At his appraising look, "I do occasionally listen when you talk about work."

He smiled, his charming smile with the dimples and the crinkled forehead and the admiration for her in his eyes. "And here I thought I was being dull." And she smiled back, looking at him from under her brow and thinking maybe, just maybe, she would grant him a reprieve.

"The where is Chicago, obviously, and the when is apparently now," he continued, "but considering you won't be getting behind the wheel of the Isotta with me as a passenger any time soon, you'll need another deadly weapon at your disposal."

She contemplated the possibilities, popping an olive into her mouth and letting her gaze wander around the room. She looked from the mahogany bar to the shelves of many-colored bottles, from the red velvet barstools to the deep green carpet, finally settling on the bartender, who had moved down to serve another customer and was currently slicing lemons with great enthusiasm. "A kitchen knife!" she suggested.

"It's certainly personal," Richard said in support. "But untidy."

"True," she acknowledged, imagining the unpleasant circumstances with a squeamish expression. "Poison, then."

"Poison reeks of premeditation. Even a Chicago court wouldn't look kindly on that."

Mary pressed her lips together, thinking. "Alright – a hound painted in phosphorous. No one will suspect."

"A what?" Richard asked, perplexed.

"On the moor? In the fog? A hellish apparition?"

He continued to stare at her, uncomprehending. "Where would you find a moor in Chicago?"

She just shook her head at his blank expression. "Oh, never mind," she said, making a mental note to correct the gap in his knowledge of popular literature. Looking around the room again for inspiration, she settled on a fire cabinet near the door. "An axe," was her next proposal.

"Like Lizzie Borden?" he asked. "'Mary Carlisle took an axe, and gave her husband forty whacks'?"

"You know the Lizzie Borden jump-rope rhyme but you don't know 'Hound of the Baskervilles…'" she muttered with a roll of her eyes. Returning to the subject: "What about a bomb?"

At this he laughed out loud. "Where would _you_ get a bomb?"

"Branson could help," she replied defensively. "He must have IRA contacts."

"But not by the time we leave on Wednesday."

Mary sighed, going to her last resort. "Then I'll stick with the basics: a mother-of-pearl-handled revolver. Like in the play. Or is that too obvious?"

"No, I don't think so," Richard replied with a shake of his head. "Sometimes the simplest solution is the best."

"What do you think, Jerry?" Mary called down to the bartender.

"About what?"

"A mother-of-pearl-handled revolver. Weapon of choice."

From a distance the man looked Richard up and down, taking in the immaculate tuxedo and the slicked-back hair, the austere platinum cuff links and the ivory waistcoat, before turning to Mary and appraising the intricate beading of her ivory and black evening gown and the sumptuous simplicity of the uniform diamonds in her necklace.

"I think that's the only weapon you fancy schmucks could get ahold of in the first place."

* * *

"So I have my plan all set," Mary said, approaching where he was lounging in bed. "I think Arthur Conan Doyle would approve. Are you suitably terrified?"

"Quaking in my dress socks."

His hand encircled her wrist as he looked up at her with charming and unshakable confidence. "The fact that you find me utterly unthreatening is very disheartening," she sighed, nevertheless acquiescing as he tugged her down onto his lap.

"I assure you, my darling, I will sleep with one eye open." One hand closed around her waist while the other held her to him as he kissed one eyelid to emphasize the point.

"Now you're just being funny. Did I laugh at you when you threatened me?" she asked, running her lips across the solid line of his jaw, stubble prickling against her cheek.

"No, you didn't," he smiled, moving to kiss the secret spot behind her ear, "but_ I _meant it."

"You said I should never, never, not _ever_ – absolutely _never_ – cross you," she began, greatly exaggerating the gravity of his warning in her most mocking tone.

"Now you're the one making fun," he said as he kissed her properly.

"Mm-hmm," she murmured against his mouth, before pulling back. "But planning your demise must come under that category of betrayal…"

"It would if you meant it," he agreed, before continuing with a tragic shake of his head: "but I just don't believe you."

Mary frowned at him and his irritating arrogance, adding yet another reason for homicide to her mental checklist. Then she decided there were only two ways to wipe that smirk off his face – one required a revolver, which she didn't have to hand; the other, tools she already possessed. So she pulled him down to kiss her and he continued the trajectory, lowering her to the mattress and settling over her, talk of murder and any trace of a smirk lost in her warm and pliant mouth as she yielded to his invasive tongue. When, at length, he finally tore his mouth from hers and they both gasped for air, her eye was caught by the book at the side of the bed, and she decided it would be prudent to remind him of something.

"Don't forget," she whispered, breathless, "I'm a black widow. And according to the bartender, you're just a fancy schmuck…"

"At least he doesn't think I'm broke any more," Richard replied, dipping his head to kiss along her neck. His hand crept up from her thigh to inch up her slip, only to find this effort unsuccessful. He drew back for a better perspective. "What exactly are you wearing?" he asked, amused.

"It's called a romper," Mary replied. "You know, for 'romping around'?"

"The irony being that it actually impedes such activity…" he said, skimming up the midnight blue silk to tug at the loose end of the bow that fastened at her waist, unwrapping her like a present.

"Your kind, at least," she said, her own fingers busy undoing the tie of his pajama bottoms, deciding on impulse to threading the cord all the way out. "Another murder weapon," she joked, snapping the silk taught between her hands.

He laughed, taking the makeshift weapon out of her hands and tossing it to the floor. His incredulity was starting to get on her nerves. "I'm dangerous, dammit," she glowered up at him, "why won't you just admit it?" He may have gotten away with threatening her long ago, but now that they were married she would prefer to have some leverage, or at least the illusion of it.

"Oh, you're dangerous alright," he admitted, impatiently abandoning his quest to take the garment off and dragging his hand down between her legs, wrenching the fabric aside. She gasped as he slipped a finger inside her without warning, and he covered her mouth with his own in a searing kiss. Her arms came up to hold him, stroking his arm, feeling the muscles flex with the movement of his hand.

"You could destroy me if you wanted to," Richard continued, his lips now against her ear. Mary would have scoffed at the statement if she weren't too preoccupied by his attentions, his deep voice infiltrating her mind as he infiltrated her body. "But you don't need a revolver to do it."

She moaned his name, both in question of his remark and encouragement of his actions. He sped up his movements as she started to move with him, and he let out a moan as she undulated against his hardness at her hip.

"I need you," she whispered, reaching up to take down the straps of her playsuit, needing him to be with her in ecstasy. He helped her out of the garment, undoing the buttons down the front and casting it off on the floor along with her discarded makeshift weapon.

Then his hands were on the back of her thighs, spreading her legs, and he entered her in a single thrust with a satisfied groan. Her breathing quickly matched his effort, and they fell into a familiar rhythm, guiding each other to the same climax they always shared but still always took them by surprise. Mary sunk her teeth into Richard's shoulder as she approached the peak; the intensity of it always shook her with disbelief, the revelation of being joined with him in such overpowering mutual desire nearly too much to take. But then he joined in her frenzy and everything came together as it should, as it always did, as it always would as long as they were together. As she knew they always would be.

* * *

"So what's the solution?" she asked, enjoying the woodsy smell of Richard's cigar all the while wondering if they both would get arrested for causing a fire by smoking in bed.

"Solution?" he echoed.

"You said I could destroy you if I wanted to, but not with a revolver." His remark had reminded her of their exchange in the hallway at Downton, when he had threatened to destroy her. Now she wanted to know what he thought she could do that would ruin him. "So what's the secret weapon?"

He pondered the question for a moment, and she thought that he might not tell her even if he had worked it out. But he was not reluctant. "A suitcase," he said with a shrug, his Achilles heel a puzzling and benign object that Mary never would have guessed. "A train ticket. A full tank of petrol in the car," he continued, "anything that would spirit you away from me." He took another ponderous drag from the cigar, adding: "I don't care if you murder me, but I would mind very much if you left."

It surprised her, for many reasons, but mostly that he would admit it. "Frankly, I never thought of that as an option," Mary replied honestly. Before their wedding, all she knew was that her lot did not separate; after the wedding, she knew it would take a very extreme act to make her want to. "Would you ever let me?" she asked, a raised eyebrow articulating her skepticism.

"I doubt I could stop you, if you made up your mind."

His tone was one of honesty too, and she was oddly pleased to hear it. She liked knowing she had some power over him, that she might walk out the door one day and he feared her absence more than anything else.

Then something else occurred to her. "Is that the real reason you won't let me drive the car?" she asked, his hesitancy to let her behind the wheel suddenly so clear.

"No," he shook his head matter-of-factly, "the reason I won't let you drive the car is because you are a menace behind the wheel."

They shared a laugh at the absurdity of their negotiation, having gone from murder to divorce to driving in the course of an evening. "So glad I can terrify you with _something_, even if it isn't a revolver or an axe."

They lay together, enjoying the comfortable quiet. "I wouldn't, you know," Mary confessed finally, and she meant it; whether she was referring to leaving him or murdering him was less clear. "I like our life," she elaborated. Lifting her head from where it had been resting in the crook of his shoulder, she pressed her forehead to his, looking up into his eyes. "Sometimes, I even like you."

"Despite my late-night typing?" he asked with a smirk. She just kissed him in response, reaching around the back of his neck to pull him down to her once again and his hands made their way into her hair, tousling it after all of her difficult combing. This time it was she who deepened the kiss, pushing her tongue into his mouth as her hand found the edge of his pajama pants again, indicating she wanted more.

"My dearest, most darling girl," Richard murmured, pulling back to look at her. "Sometimes I think you're trying to kill me."

* * *

The End


End file.
